One of the many responsibilities of being a Christian is Confession. Imagine being a young man from a conservative Christian family, having been thrust into a life of strict 7 am wake ups on Sunday morning to be dragged to church. Now, full of malice, spite and lust, imagine having to walk up to a man draped in black cloth sitting quietly in a chair waiting for you to spill whatever twisted shit is on your mind.

I remember the first time I confessed properly. Not a massive fake spray of small issues… but real problems, mistakes and obstacles I was facing at the time. It was at a youth camp, right after I finished year 12, I was 18 and I had just been diagnosed with Depression.

I haven’t been much of a religious person. Partly because going to church didn’t seem fun. Don’t get me wrong, I loved youth camps, choir practice and hanging out with friends…but standing for 2 and a half hours every week, chanting the same prayers and songs didn’t seem to be an enticing practice every Sunday morning.
As I would later understand, I failed to see how much it actually shaped me and chose to ignore the pivotal lessons that were ingrained into my character from day one by the Church.

Instead, I focused on the negative and chose to think of the Church as many people in today’s world do as well. Unnecessary.

So when I was forced into talking about my problems with a priest, I was mildly open-minded at best.
I had the worst couple of years of my life, and in my mind, religion was in no way going to change that. All the times that I had rocked up on a Sunday were out of loyalty, discipline and commitment…nothing more. To me, the answer for recovery and healing lay outside those walls and in the real world.
I was somewhat wrong.

When I walked up to the priest on that day, I knew what I was going to say. But somehow, someway, something else came out of my mouth:
“…I don’t know what to do…”

Bear in mind, this wasn’t a man I knew…he wasn’t the regular priest at our church, a man that we consider to be a close family friend. Rather this was a different man who was visiting our camp to speak to us about our faith, no doubt to enlighten many other young minds. I thought maybe he had some hidden agenda, maybe he was a man of insincerity. But when I spoke he seemed like he actually was listening…he seemed to actually give a shit.

And thus the reason for my first words. Something in me seemed to enforce what I was saying, I was lost, alone and afraid of what might become of me.
Mental health isn’t something that is looked at too kindly within our community and the shame that my parents might have to endure once people found out, haunted me daily. So the confusion was understandable.

In that moment, I could not stop talking about my problems…my voice strained and cracked as emotions broke the surface of my words and my body began to feel weak as I was reminded of all the feelings that were buried deep down inside.

He sat there and listened quietly and I could see him hang onto every detail, occasionally nodding along. His eyes hung with concern.

Finally, I broke. The anxiety seemed to take over and reliving each moment over and over had taken a toll. So right there…in a room, with a man whom I’ve never known, in a scene where I never pictured myself being in, I cried.

I hate crying…somehow that old idea that it’s for babies and that real men don’t shed tears, still clings onto me. But at that moment I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. And like so many times before, the feeling of loneliness crept in…until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned my head to see a man with sadness in his eyes. Not a priest or a man of God, but a person who was witnessing a lost young man feel the weight of his world on his shoulders.

For some reason, I found solace as he patted my shoulder reassuringly.

Finally, he spoke, and I have never forgotten what he said.

“You are not alone…and you must have faith.”

For a moment I thought to call bullshit on those words that seemed so easy to have come from his mouth…until he went on.

He explained that the faith that he was talking about was not just in an all-powerful being that we learn from in a book…but rather in oneself.

In the past, I have written about how important it is to have belief in yourself…that you should dig deep to find the courage or inspiration to face whatever it is that may be in your way. But nowhere did I mention how I found mine. The truth is that for the longest time I didn’t know where to look. And I sure as hell didn’t think id find the answer in Confession.

Confessing my utmost problems to a man who I didn’t know, in a place where I was completely alien to, made me realise how important it was to have reassurance from external and internal forces. That you should take thoughts from the things around you to remind you of how great you really are or could be. At that moment I needed someone who didn’t know me, to remind me that I still have what it took to be better…all I had to do was look inside. Not at the stories of old that were taught to us at school or in Church, but from the will that I had to at least try and be better.

I found solace in a moment, with a thought that was brought to me by a priest. Something I never thought I would say. But rather than push a passage or a parable, he told me to search within…whether or not it was through prayer or meditation, he encouraged me to look at who and what I was to get better, a valuable lesson for someone who was lost.

I think the moral of this story is that sometimes, we find strength and courage from little things done by the most unexpected people. Whether that be from the person next door or a priest who actually cared. Sometimes the world isn’t all gloomy and depressing…and sometimes people aren’t that bad either. Every now and then, a little light from someone is all the warmth you need to find your way.